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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431557">Acclimation (A Cold Comfort)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road'>penitence_road</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>HuGっと！プリキュア | Hug tto! Precure</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse of Authority, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dissociative Elements, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance, suicidal ideation via magical girl metaphor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:07:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It will happen.  It will happen,</i> he told himself, a rote repetition that had guided him more times than he knew how to count.  Gradually, his hands began to steady at the old refrain.  <i>It will happen and whatever comes after it will happen.  And then time will stop, and nothing will ever have to happen to me again.</i></p><p>[Filling in the gaps on Episode 39.  George is getting lonely, and Listor is getting desperate.  George offers a solution, and regardless of his thoughts on the matter, Listor is in no position to say no.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Kurai/Listol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Banned Together Bingo 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Acclimation (A Cold Comfort)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As canon-compliant as I think can be reasonably expected, given how massively baffling <i>Hugtto</i>'s timeline turned out to be.  Please mind the tags—this goes to some very dark places, especially towards the end.  Listor is drowning in the deep end of his Sunk Cost Fallacy swimming pool and George, in the throes of his own despair, is more than willing to pull Listor down with him.  </p><p>(Written for the "Hamster Sex Scene" square of Banned Together Bingo, but everyone's in human form throughout.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Criasu’s record-keeping in the 21<sup>st</sup> century left much to be desired, but such was the impact of the loss of ever-present cameras and ubiquitous android assistants on employee work ethic.  That, at least, was the only conclusion Listor could draw from months of vaguely drafted incident reports and fragments of video captured from Doctor Traum’s creations. </p><p>He’d been through most of the information already, a research binge that had lead him to Wakamiya Henri.  Annoyingly, Listor couldn’t truly blame the Precure for that failure—the boy had barely turned an ear to them at all before he turned Listor down.  Approaching Daigan had been a stray thought that came maddeningly close to working, if only the fool could have dodged the purification attack that ended the battle—and, perhaps, if Papple’s eye had been less sharp. </p><p><em>And where was that sharpness when she worked here? </em>Listor thought, swiping forcefully through another responsibility-dodging report from Criasu’s erstwhile section chief. </p><p>Criasu had too many “erstwhiles” now, with Doctor Traum the latest and by far the worst loss, not least because he’d taken with him any explanations for the half-constructed devices that filled his poorly-organized lab as well as access to all of RUR-9500’s memory banks.  Listor had <em>specifically </em>saved that data externally before wiping the android’s programming to avoid exactly this sort of knowledge gap, and then Traum had gone in and encrypted the lot of it. </p><p>At least the reports she wrote were thorough, if difficult to sift through for the sort of information Listor needed.  RUR-9500’s ability to parse interpersonal connections back then had been stunted at best, and that was what he was looking for, evidence of connection.</p><p><em>Don’t pretend you know how I’m feeling, Listor!</em> Bishin yelled in his memory, accompanied by a fresh jab from a headache brought on by too much time spent staring at a screen.  Listor winced despite himself and splayed his fingers over his temples, sitting back in his chair—  </p><p>—back into the warmth of someone else’s presence, as President Kurai rested his hand on Listor’s shoulder and leaned in to examine the computer screen.  Listor locked his jaw closed around the undignified breath that threatened to burst out of his throat and, when he was certain he had his face firmly under control, looked up to assess George’s mood. </p><p>The anemic blue of the display discolored the man’s white coat and accentuated his pallor, but the current day’s smile sat calmly on his face, for the time being serene and relaxed.  His eyes flicked neatly down to Listor, who straightened incrementally under the regard. </p><p>“Working late again?” George asked him, light-toned. </p><p>It had once been the case that Listor rarely saw the man outside of the corporation’s central observation room, but access to the past-world seemed to have awoken a streak of curiosity in him.  He’d ceased his forays into the city, thankfully, and for a while after the restructure, Listor had thought things would go back to normal.  Lately, though, he’d taken to wandering again—though at least he wasn’t leaving the building anymore.</p><p>“Yes, President.”  Listor nodded briefly.  With slow care, mindful of the history between George and Doctor Traum that no one else in the company knew, he went on, “With—recent events, Criasu Corp’s need for new employees has only risen.” </p><p>“Do you think so?” George asked.  When Listor remained silent, waiting for a follow-up, he lifted his eyebrows into a questioning curve.</p><p>Listor absorbed the question and George gave him an encouraging smile, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and remaining silent. </p><p>“Gelos’s methods are growing more extreme, and Bishin’s work has been erratic ever since his return,” Listor reasoned.  “I can’t be away from the company for as long as one of our field agents, and as it now stands, we—have no others.”  He faltered as George continued to stare at him, stare as if trying to commit his face to memory for some later recounting.  Unease raised the hair on the back of Listor’s neck; he fought the urge to run his hand back over his nape. </p><p>“Yes.”  George finally looked away, his smile fading into a distant melancholy.  “You’re right, I suppose.  As usual.”</p><p>“…I’m sorry for the doctor’s loss,” Listor hazarded.  “I know the two of you were close.” </p><p>George shook his head.  “I can only blame myself,” he said with a soft sigh.  “This has all taken so much longer than anticipated.” </p><p>Another stab of pain, another memory—his and Harry’s first few months at the main branch as field agents, united, <em>ignited</em>, by the promise of eternal happiness.  If only they had managed to freeze time back then, before the illness, before Harry’s resolve failed.</p><p>“Yes, President,” Listor said aloud, unable to keep the hardness out of his voice.  His neck was beginning to feel the strain of sitting half-turned to face a man standing over his shoulder. </p><p>George looked down at him again, briefly assessing, and then a wistful smile washed over his face. </p><p>“I’m only keeping you longer, aren’t I?  I apologize, Listor.  It has been somewhat lonely in my office of late.”  He reached down to give Listor’s shoulder another squeeze.  “I appreciate how hard you’re working.  I’ll follow your example and get back to it myself.” </p><p>And then, at last, he turned away and walked out the door, his even footsteps retreating down the hall. </p><p>Listor wrapped his hand over the place where the President’s had lain, pressing his other arm against his midsection, where the unease had slid down his spine to coil cold as coin in his belly. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bishin refused to attend the next staff meeting; he’d locked himself in his apartment and only answered with the muffled thumps of hurled objects when Listor came to collect him. </p><p>“President Kurai will be attending today.  Bishin—” Listor called, then broke off when something slammed hard enough against the door to rattle it in its track.   He closed his eyes, turning to lean against the wall—it was unprofessional of him, but there was no one to see.  It wasn’t as if they even had the people to spare on watching the security cameras.</p><p>Inside, he could faintly hear Bishin’s voice—too soft and rapid to make out the words, so he had to be in his true form, and probably ranting into a pillow on top of that.  Listor had never had the patience for dealing with Bishin when he was in such moods—only Harry knew the trick of it.  Listor’s lips pulled themselves into a grimace. </p><p>
  <em>If I stand here long enough, will he understand me and come out?  Or will he just starve himself in there out of spite?</em>
</p><p>He’d once had a confrontation with the Precure of the future that had played out an argument along those lines—the transmission of feelings without words.  It had worked for them at the time.  It always seemed to, somehow.  They won battles that did nothing but drag out a war they were fated to lose, and all it accomplished was stripping their opponents of what precious little they had left. </p><p>Bishin’s voice trailed off into nothing, a silence studded with high-pitched sobs like spilled tacks.  Listor knew the outcome, but all the same, he waited for as long as he dared—longer than he should have, truly, but he could explain lateness more easily to the President than he could flagrant absenteeism. </p><p>Some minutes in, someone pressed a light touch to Listor’s elbow.</p><p>He looked up, swift and shocked, and his gaze landed at entirely the wrong height.  Instead of the bronze of Bishin’s eyes, he was met with an arrowhead of pale yellow on white—the diamond pattern that extended down from the deep collar of President Kurai’s shirt, half-obscured by the thin beaded chain connecting his coat lapels.</p><p>“It’s all right,” the man said, barely a breath, his eyes soft and sympathetic.  The hallway lights harshened the weary lines of his face, making him look as tired as Listor felt.  “We’ll give him his space for now.” </p><p>If Bishin heard, there was no sign of it; his door remained sealed and silent.  Listor dropped his eyes again, ducking into a shallow bow, and let himself be guided away by the gentle pressure of George’s fingertips. </p><p>Neither of them spoke again until they were well away from the door to Bishin’s apartment, walking back towards the main elevators through the corporation’s all-but-abandoned employee residence wing. </p><p>“I take it he still isn’t speaking to you.”  </p><p>“He’ll come around, President.”  Listor lifted his head and scored his voice with resolution—<em>for Bishin’s sake,</em> he told himself, though he could only hope Bishin would never find out about the line his stubbornness had him treading.  “I’m sure of it.” </p><p>George pulled his hand away and hummed; Listor could find no meaning in the sound. </p><p>“Try not to worry about it too much,” the President advised.  “The future is still rewriting itself.  He has time.”</p><p>Listor sent a sidelong glance at the ornate binding of the President’s ever-present book, tucked safely in his other arm.  Catching the look, George lifted it up and flipped it open; inside, the familiar purple text busily scribed itself out over pages that had previously been burned clean by the light dispelling the impossible monster Doctor Traum had willed himself into. </p><p>Listor hadn’t studied the book’s content, knew only the last few pages—the same doomsaying that always rewrote itself no matter how many times the Precure wiped it away—but nothing in the other man’s demeanor suggested a change worth discussing. </p><p>“It’s the same as always,” George confirmed, and sighed as they stepped into the elevator.  “The poor things.” </p><p><em>He means the Precure.  </em>Listor nodded, firmly pushing down the visions of flame and rising smoke that threatened to blot out the hallway in front of him. </p><p>They rode without speaking for another few precious moments.   </p><p>“Oh,” the President said as the floor chime sounded and the elevator slid open, revealing the door to the conference room at the end of the hall.  “But I have thought of something that might help the two of you.”</p><p>“Sir?”  <em>That’s too kind, </em>was what he wanted to say, but the magnitude of the lie—of Criasu’s <em>kindnesses</em>—choked the words before they could even begin shaping themselves to his tongue. </p><p>George smiled at him but just shook his head.  A light in the ceiling blinked to life as they approached and the President turned away to make eye contact with the scanner. </p><p>“Ask me after,” he said.  Ahead of them, the doors slid open with a sigh.  “When we have the time.”</p><p>He flashed Listor another smile and touched his elbow again, a ghost of sensation that slid down his arm to linger at the back of his hand before releasing as George walked ahead of him into the room. </p><p>Gelos was already inside; she stood from her desk when George entered.  Her eyes narrowed at the President’s trailing fingers, her heavy purple eyeliner rendering her focus easy to track, then snapped back to his face. </p><p>The meeting that followed was worse than useless.  Bishin never showed.  Gelos spent the duration in stony silence, looking between Listor and the President with a stare like an owl’s, fixed and flat but prone to odd, quick twitches to one side or another.  She didn’t have reports to make so much as vague threats against the Precure.  For his part, Listor had yet to produce another viable candidate for approach, in part because he wasn’t casting as wide a net as he would have before.  He wanted someone the Precure already knew, a success story they thought was already written—it was pure spite, but Criasu needed a victory.  As such, his status report was barely a sentence, and that longer than it needed to be.</p><p>“I’m continuing the search for suitable persons to interview.”  He cast about for anything meaningful to add, considered extemporizing an update on Bishin, and settled for, “I can also begin cataloging the contents of Professor Traum’s lab at your discretion, President Kurai.” </p><p>He hadn’t meant it as anything but space filler—surely the doctor had already used his most promising projects, and what use did they have for his reject bin and a handful of in-progress works that no one lacking his particular flavor of eccentricity could even begin to understand?  Yet the President surprised Listor with a smile. </p><p>“You can leave that to me, Listor, but I am impressed with your foresight.” </p><p><em>Foresight?  </em>Listor stared back at him, nodding without understanding the comment.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gelos’s gaze moving back and forth between the two of them again.</p><p>“The future is once again returning to what it was,” George said with an air of finality, resting his hand on the cover of his book.  “So that all may live forever with their smiles.  An eternity without end.” </p><p>He stood up, and Listor and Gelos echoed the movement, the two of them rattling out, “For the glory of Criasu!” in familiar unison.  The President’s lips moved in a noncommittal curve but his attention had already left, his eyes scanning nothing in the room in particular before landing on Listor.  For a moment, his expression shifted into something more genuine, a true smile, gaze lingering.  Then he turned and departed, leaving Listor with the horrible sensation of being watched by a predator. </p><p>He narrowed his eyes.  He was no prey species, not anymore.  He turned to face Gelos, face schooled to detachment. </p><p>“If you have something else to report—”</p><p>“So, he’s moving on to you, is he?”  The words caught him by surprise and in his moment of lowered guard, Gelos pushed off of her work station and rose up to his, painted nails rapping on the metal casing as she flipped herself into a cross-legged perch on the edge of his desk.  She glared at him, ignoring his affronted stare. </p><p>“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she huffed.  “But I can’t imagine what he sees in you.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” Listor bit out.  Gelos leaned back and laughed, a bitter cacophony of sound.</p><p>“You ignorant little stray mouse!” she spat.  Listor’s hands clenched reflexively at his sides; he felt himself trying to bristle.  An old instinct—he kept a straight face as Gelos stared down her nose at him.  “You think you’re seeing him so often now because he’s wandering around again, don’t you?  But he isn’t; the only one he’s coming to see is you.” </p><p>“The President is free to check in with any employee at any time,” he began, but she grinned, a jagged twist of her lips that was more a baring of teeth than any real expression of camaraderie. </p><p>“Suddenly he’s all compliments,” she intoned.  “And he’s standing closer than he used to and touching you more than he should be.”  At the twitch of his mouth, she leaned in, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I’ve seen it all before, from where you’re standing now.  It’ll be less fun in a month or two when he gets tired of you.” </p><p>And with that, suddenly, it all clicked.  Realization slammed into Listor’s gut as he remembered George, out of his dress clothes and trailing after Papple, who spent all her spare time doting on him.  Do Not Disturb flags had popped up on Listor’s display hub every afternoon and most evenings, back when the majority of the workers in the branch thought President Kurai’s true form was that ridiculous white phantasm.  And then Gelos had made the journey back through time and the flags had changed hours, gravitating to her schedule instead, and Papple drove herself into a spurned-love transformation over it all. </p><p>George had kept up his dalliances for a time—they’d been fewer, with Gelos, who had a better understanding of their respective positions than Papple had ever possessed—but they began to wane not long after, petering off to nonexistence when she began showing up to work with teased hair and shoulder spikes. </p><p>Gelos gave him a stare of open condescension.  “Well,” she allowed, with a trace of cool pity, “he’s very good.  But don’t think he’ll be your eternal happiness.”  She hopped off his work station and sank down through the open air towards the bottom floor exit, calling out over his mute silence, “And don’t think I’m as easy to drive off as the last girl!  I don’t care who the boss is sleeping with as long as Criasu still wins!”</p><p>Listor found himself alone.  A pit open and empty in his stomach, he eased himself down into his chair. </p><p>He hadn’t realized.  Of course he hadn’t.  How could he have even begun to guess?  Something like—like <em>that </em>had never been a part of his life before.  He’d never even thought about it.  There had never been time.  It… </p><p><em>Sex, </em>he thought<em>.  Use the word.  If that’s what he wants, there’ll be no getting around it.  </em>Heavy weight began to gather in his stomach again, a stone in the pit.  Sweat prickled at his shoulders despite the room’s perfectly regulated temperature.  <em>There’ll be no—no getting around it.  </em></p><p>It took him a few minutes to notice the new message flag on his computer display.  His hands moved on auto-pilot, touching the screen to bring up the message without any conscious input from his brain. </p><p><em>'Listor,'</em> the message read. <em> 'Regarding what I spoke of earlier, please come by the science department this afternoon.'</em></p><p><em>This afternoon means no later than three.  </em>The thought crossed Listor’s mind as his eyes strayed to the clock—not yet eleven.  <em>I could put it off for—no.  </em>He closed his eyes and breathed, slow and controlled.    <em>This afternoon means no earlier than noon.</em>  <em>Be prompt.  </em></p><p><em>'Understood.  I will see you there after lunch,</em>' read his reply.  He sent it off, then looked down dispassionately at the faint trembling of his hands. </p><p><em>It will happen.  It will happen, </em>he told himself, a rote repetition that had guided him more times than he knew how to count.  Gradually, his hands began to steady at the old refrain.  <em>It will happen and whatever comes after it will happen.  And then time will stop, and nothing will ever have to happen to me again.  </em></p><p>Once upon a time, that last phrase had been <em>us </em>instead of <em>me</em>.  The new version still stung, a pinprick of remembered brilliance that glanced over him and then vanished again, locked down in the dark with all the rest. </p><p>His hands were steady and his mind clear.  He got back to work. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Listor had always disliked Criasu’s labs.  No surprise, given the nature of his earliest experience with them, but even discounting that, the labs had been, in their heyday, a wall-to-wall gauntlet of flickering lights and mechanical clanking, and, at the heart of all the activity, Doctor Traum, waiting to launch himself at someone like a sharp-ended spring sent flying loose from an overworked machine.  It had been headache-inducing at the best of times, and the malicious edge to the doctor’s “spirit of scientific inquiry” had ensured that Listor, at least, seldom had what he would call a <em>good</em> visit.  All the same, the silence in the building’s science department of late stood as a testament to Criasu’s diminished numbers, and if it weren’t for those shortages...  </p><p>Listor pushed down a half-formed thought about whether Traum’s surprises or the President’s were worse for his ability to sleep at night.  It would do no good to give himself time to think.  He paused at the door to the doctor’s abandoned office long enough to let the scanner capture an image of his face, then stepped inside as the door slid open. </p><p>The room blurred immediately into static, the cool blue walls and dim silver computer banks fragmenting and pixelating like corrupted video files.  Listor drew himself upright, one hand half-raising, but otherwise remained still.  This was startling, and annoying, but not entirely out of the norm. </p><p>The room brightened, the sense of the walls telescoping outwards.  He found himself standing on a yellow metal platform staring out at an endless sky filled with—nonsense.  Oversized teddy-bears and cylinder-shape dolls, optical illusions given impossible form, floating orbs, all in garish checkered patterns, drifting in a mottled void, the far distance patched by fields of white and blue and ink-bleed stains of sickly green.</p><p>“Something he hadn’t quite finished yet before he left,” George said from behind him.  “He called it the Infinite Labyrinth.”</p><p>“…It’s like him,” Listor decided, and the man chuckled. </p><p>“It is, isn’t it?”  He stepped up to the edge of the platform, surveying the panoply.  “It loops on itself, of course.  Like a proper Möbius program.  You leap out of one insoluble problem and land in another, but it’s all the same ground in the end.”  He looked up at Listor with a sad smile.  “Familiar, isn’t it?”</p><p>Listor nodded, not trusting himself to speak. </p><p>“How do you leave it?” he asked eventually.  <em>What does any of this have to do with Bishin and me?  </em></p><p>“The same way you break through any Möbius strip: stop running and punch through the floor,” George answered.  He rested his hand against a patch of blue sky that looked no different from any other until he pressed at it lightly, causing the image to distend and warp.  “He didn’t have a way to power it yet—it’s self-contained, but not self-sustaining.” </p><p>“You’ve found something, then?” </p><p>“I added something.  A tweak to the program from that heart simulation VR module.” </p><p>“The one Bishin…”  He didn’t finish the sentence, because the sentence he wanted to say was, <em>The one Bishin came back from using in tears? </em>and saying it aloud would only make him sound angry, which would be pointless. </p><p>“Mm.  Come.  I’ll show you.”  The President held a hand up to him and, when Listor just stared at it, tilted his head with a slight smile.  “I’d hate for you to get lost.”</p><p>“…Yes, sir.”  Listor took his hand and stepped with him off the platform. </p><p>They fell, for a time, past checkered spheres and misshapen, oversized toys, avoiding discolored patches of air that George didn’t comment on, just tugged them away from with an easy command of the space.  Listor looked back up the way they came, but the platform had been lost behind the throng of other objects—perhaps it had already relocated to somewhere beneath them, at this point. </p><p>George extended his free hand out in front of them, his palm facing downward.  Immediately, their descent slowed, some unseen elevator reaching its destination.  Listor closed his eyes, fighting back a pinwheeling sense of vertigo.</p><p>“Leave them closed, if you like.”  George moved in front of him to take his other hand.  “Here, it’s just one step down.” </p><p>Listor gave an increment of a nod and lowered himself slowly forward, feeling for a purchase he couldn’t sense.  He stepped onto solid ground and released a short breath of relief, taking another ginger step as George tugged him forward. </p><p>“I’ll explain inside,” the man said, placing one hand on Listor’s shoulder, a soothing voice right beside his ear.  There was a moment of pressure on his shoulder, a sense of distention that felt like time travel in the same way that a lazy afternoon breeze felt like a spring gale.</p><p>And then—noise.  Not overwhelming, just a return of everyday office sound, a murmur of distant voices and the hum of machines.  The light level changed, cooling to something dimmer than the Labyrinth’s dazzling outdoor shine. </p><p>Not feeling the President’s hands anymore, Listor slowly opened his eyes.  He found himself back outside the door to Doctor Traum’s office. </p><p><em>Another game? </em> He allowed himself the thought, but not the weary sigh trying to expel itself from his lungs.  Visible or not, the President was doubtlessly watching somehow. </p><p>The moment’s pause gave the scanner time to pick up his face again and, once more, slide the door open.  He stepped inside. </p><p>He found himself, not in Traum’s branch office room, but rather in the labs from the <em>main </em>office, sprawling so expansively they took up several floors of Criasu’s towering monolith in the future.  A huge, open floor space, dotted with work stations, each home to some half-finished machine or currently-running experiment, bubbling chemical arrays and labyrinths for rats, blueprints for robots, pinned-up keepsakes hazed and dark with toge-power, monitored for how long the infusions would last.  Exactly as he remembered them. </p><p>Listor picked his way through the chaos, gaze skimming over the simulation.  <em>Is this the inside of his heart?  I knew they were close, but…</em></p><p>“Secretary?”  The voice came behind him, to his right, and he <em>knew </em>no one had been standing there when he passed the space mere footsteps ago.  “What brings you in to see me?” </p><p>It was, of course, Doctor Traum, pushing back his top hat and giving Listor a long, intrigued stare.  He looked the same age that Listor remembered him, wearing his anachronistic tailcoat, his blonde hair fading slowly to gray.  He had a wrench in one hand, and a mechanical doll in the other. </p><p>“…I was supposed to meet the President,” Listor answered, considering his words.</p><p>“An inspection?”  A broad grin tugged across the doctor’s face and he leaned to the side, speaking to someone behind Listor.  “Lulu, were we scheduled for an inspection today?” </p><p>That <em>did </em>get Listor to turn around—he didn’t trust an image of one of the Precure to just <em>stay </em>an image, and he had more than one reason to be careful of his heart these days.  But the Lulu standing behind him was RUR-9500, dressed in her usual black gloves and purple minidress, half-lidded eyes dull and disinterested. </p><p>The android processed the question for a moment then shook her head.  “No, Doctor Traum.  No inspection is entered into the department calendar.”</p><p>“A <em>surprise </em>inspection, then.”  Traum’s voice dipped lower, curling around the words, then climbed again into exaggerated cheer.  “Secretary, I love surprises!  Come and look at this latest device while we wait for the President.” </p><p>He turned away to rummage in his desk and, at last, the image froze, graying out to monochrome. </p><p>George was standing behind Listor again.  He knew it without having to look. </p><p>“It’s less fanciful than I expected from that program,” he commented.  Bishin had recounted his experience as a garbled story about mermaids and ballrooms and human royalty.  Doctor Traum’s office could be a whirlwind, but it was no fairy tale. </p><p>He turned to find George standing just inside the door, taking in his surroundings with a morose stare.  At the words, the man met his eyes and one corner of his mouth turned up. </p><p>“It was reacting to the hearts of children back then.  Children and a young man who wants very much to believe in happy endings.” </p><p><em>Harry.  </em>Listor’s expression stiffened and the President breathed out a small sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. </p><p>“But I did make some changes to the program, as I said,” he conceded.  “The user, rather than the subject, is now in full control of the surroundings.  I could show you anything here, anything I could imagine.” </p><p>The image around them shifted, changing moment to moment—now a mansion on a hilltop, white and grand and old; now the light-dappled shore of a forest lake; now a library; now a hospital room; now a construction site with a sign outside reading, <em>Coming Soon: Criasu Corporation</em>. </p><p>It wasn’t <em>his </em>site.  It was far too large, for a start, and lacked the high barricades of shipping containers piled up on two sides like so many multi-colored bricks.  The gray tarp walls around the perimeter were the same, though, and back when he was smaller, the expanse of sandy ground had seemed larger than it was from a human perspective.  Listor looked around, heart twisting in his chest, because he didn’t trust that <em>they </em>weren’t here, even if that memory would be false. </p><p>But there was no sign of the Harihari Township, its little clutches of buildings with the garden in the back, just bare steel girders and a frozen crane.  Not that the absence helped much, now that the memory sat at the forefront of his mind, fouled with smoke and the smell of burning— </p><p>He held his breath and wrenched his thoughts away.  The President was talking again. </p><p>“It’s easier when you have a clear image.  It’s responding to your heart, after all.  That energy feeds into the Infinite Labyrinth.  The stronger the input, the stronger the output.” </p><p>“Whose energy?” Listor asked, the words distant in his own ears. </p><p>And George was suddenly in front of him, directly in front, looking up at him with a pained smile, golden eyes bright.  “Do you think the Precure’s belief in the future is stronger than yours?”</p><p>Listor shook his head.  His words emerged cold and sure.  “No one’s belief in the future is stronger than mine.”</p><p>
  <em>It will happen.  It will happen, and then…</em>
</p><p>“Then they will run in your Labyrinth until the end of time.”  The President placed a hand on Listor’s upper arm, just below the shoulder, and squeezed.  “It’s an easy trap to set.  When would you like to use it?”</p><p>“Today.” </p><p>George closed his eyes and huffed a breath of laughter, rubbing one thumb back and forth over Listor’s sleeve.  “Always so diligent, Listor.  I’m so glad I still have you.”  He shook his head.  “Well, you have good timing.  Our good doctor, you see, will be making his first move against us soon.”</p><p>Listor’s eyes widened despite himself.  “He survived?  All of that?” </p><p>“He did, and now he means to send the Precure to the future.”</p><p>“…He can’t possibly think they’re going to be of any use there,” Listor said, dumbfounded at the very idea.</p><p>“The book does not detail his thoughts,” George demurred, “but if I were to guess at them…  He is in a state of uncertainty.  It seems that the Precure remain ignorant about a great deal of what the future holds—Harry may not have been entirely forthcoming with them.  I suspect Traum means to test their resolve.” </p><p><em>Harry.  </em>No, he wouldn’t want to talk about everything that had brought him to Criasu.  Ignoring harsh realities with the vague optimism of, “Things will work out somehow,” that had always been Harry’s way. </p><p>“I see,” Listor said, voice icy.  “Then we should prepare an appropriate welcome for them.”  <em>Them and Harry both.</em></p><p>George nodded, eyes sympathetic.  “Yes.  I’ll show you how to lay down the base plate for the Labyrinth.  It’s entirely dormant until activated, so even Lulu shouldn’t be able to sense it in advance.  You can prepare that today if you’d like.  But—” </p><p>He pushed his coat aside and slipped a hand into one of his pockets, pulling out a metal sphere about the size of a large marble, the center encircled by a meridian line.  Its surface was electric green, stamped with the same checkered pattern of the orbs inside the Labyrinth.</p><p>The image of the construction site clipped into static and bars of color, the same effect as at the start.  When it faded, they were left standing in Traum’s office, the lights now dim and pale.</p><p>“This is the control core,” George said, wrapping his long fingers around Listor’s wrist.  Listor obediently turned out his palm.  The sphere was colder than he’d been expecting, but he didn’t resist as George folded his fingers closed around it.  “It will take some time to attune to you.  Keep it close.  I’ll tell you how to activate it once it’s ready.</p><p>“Now let me show you the rest.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Traum would be triggering the timelapse in Harry’s new home, his little storefront, so that was where the Labyrinth’s base plate would need to be as well.  Listor hadn’t yet seen the place in person.  </p><p>Someone else had helped with the decorating; that much was obvious.  Harry’s rooms at Criasu were crammed with plush red and gold decorations anywhere he could fit them, an ostentatious taste he’d developed in response to their early years, while the new Beauty Harry showroom was stripped down and clean, natural lighting and plain walls accented with tastefully colorful furniture and an array of staggered shelving that his customers probably thought of as “eclectic” rather than “arranged for the convenience of creatures no more than fifteen centimeters tall.”  It was all—fine.  Irritating by the nature of its rebellious existence, but as far as its design went, simple and welcoming and warm. </p><p>The trees, though.  It was the trees that left Listor’s jaw aching from the force of his gritted teeth.  The house cradled the branches of the huge old park tree it was built in; boughs grew through the walls of the place with harmonious grace.  Beauty Harry was a snapshot of what their plans for the Harihari Township had been—small houses to start with, and small trees, but with room for both to grow, with and into each other, a beautiful fusion of the natural world with the trappings and needs of sentient life.  It was a perfectly realized version of what the clan had dreamed of, what Harry and Listor had joined Criasu hoping to be able to afford.</p><p>And here Harry lived with the infant Cure Tomorrow, played host to the Precure of the past, invited humans in to fritter their livelihoods away, while Listor and Bishin, the only other survivors of the clan, lived and worked in Criasu’s dark halls, metal and plastic, not a single leaf of living green to be found outside of a glass dome in the science labs. </p><p>Listor left the plate secured on the underside of the table in the sitting room and teleported away as quickly as he came, near faint with rage. </p><p>There was work to be done, no shortage of it, but instead of returning to a terminal, Listor found his way to the gymnasium.  Few of the employees at the branch office ever used it.  Charaleet had had moments of whimsy involving basketball or tennis, more interested in looking photogenic than getting real exercise, while Gelos’s pair of assistants had sometimes spotted each other with a punching bag, unwilling to box a breathing opponent with or without their glasses on.  Doctor Traum had observed an extremely irregular morning calisthenics routine, the sheer absurdity of which usually drove off anyone else. </p><p>Listor had never been much of a mind to be observed in his practice.  He’d learned martial arts for the mental discipline, the focusing techniques, not because Criasu expected its employees to try and go toe-to-toe with legendary magical warriors.  As such, he’d always gone through his routines in the privacy of his own apartment.  Today, though, he needed the space of the gym, and perhaps the targets, because he had few enough personal belongings and no desire to pulverize them with a darkness-empowered bo staff.  If Gelos was of a mind to confront him about anything, she’d choose a different arena, and going by previous patterns Bishin wouldn’t be speaking to him for at least another two days.  The President’s interest would be what it would be; Listor’s fury left him no emotional energy to spare worrying about that future. </p><p>He had only enough patience to unfasten his cape and coat, dropping them onto a low bench before stalking out onto the floor mat.  His temper spiked, hotter and hotter, until he broke into a run, the shout of frustration dragging itself out of his vocal chords as he leapt and spun, throwing closed-fist strikes and whirling kicks at a torrent of invisible enemies.  The staff materialized and dematerialized in his hands, a streak of carmine hissing through the air, splitting the mat cover where he brought it down full-force or evaporating in bursts of toge-power, auras that glimmered dark and brief around his palms. </p><p>He poured himself into the work-out, pushed himself through the positions until his limbs burned, yelled sharp kiai until his throat went too raw to continue.  And it still wasn’t enough; the pain was still too close, so he kept going, narrowing his eyes against pouring sweat and his lashing hair, drawing in, tighter movements, shorter breaths, more control, more, more, more.  He practiced until his limbs went numb, tingling with a distant warning throb, and his breathing devolved into nothing but racing, shallow pants, thready and near-silent.  He practiced until he could no longer think of anything but his despair and his movements began to break down.</p><p>Finally, he guided the staff through a last spinning overhead arc, drawing the shape of a summoning circle—raised his knee and turned to face the far wall, staff drawn in tight along one side as his other hand lifted in front of his face—dropped into his final stance—and held the position long enough that an Oshimaida might come crawling and moaning into the world.</p><p>After, in the ringing silence, he released the staff in a flurry of dark energy and sagged to his knees, arms gone limp in his lap, staring blankly at the floor beneath him as his breaths puffed out of him in short gasps.  Someone’s feet crossed his line of vision, but he lacked the drive to lift his head and look.  Whoever it was leaned down, a flutter of white cloth, then departed.  Listor just sat, no more inclined to stir for the visitor than to move the little ball of metal resting in his pocket, a lump of cold pressed to his leg.  Time could stop this very moment, and that would be perfectly fine by him.</p><p>When he finally came back to himself, the gym lights had cycled to their energy-saving mode, and the dim light glistened on a glass of water sitting in front of him, a dark patch beneath it where condensation had run down the walls and seeped into the floor mat.  A folded sheet of paper rested next to it. </p><p>He leaned forward and took the water.  Still faintly cool, it tasted vaguely of artificial raspberries.  As he sipped through it, the liquid soothing going down his dry throat, he flipped open the paper, dully unsurprised to see the President’s letterhead at the top of the page. </p><p><em>'Listor,' </em>it read.  <em>'You looked so focused out there I didn’t have the heart to distract you.  However, when you’re finished, I wonder if I might prevail on you to come by my apartment?  I’m afraid I’ve rather tired myself out today, but I did promise to show you how to activate the control core, and I would hate for you to have to wait.  After seeing your display in the gym, I can’t imagine it will need much more.  I’ve left you some water with an electrolyte supplement, but if you’d like some dinner as well, I’m sure I can manage something.  -George'</em></p><p>The core.  Listor pulled it out of his pocket to examine it again.  The metal casing had discolored, he found, bursts of violet like bruises or spreading mold creeping over the original green.  Its temperature had dropped even further; it sat in his hand like an ice cube, radiating cold. </p><p>He repocketed it and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protesting ache in his limbs.  His shirt desperately needed to be changed before he did anything else, and he had no intention of walking all the way back to his apartment half-clothed, so he just gathered his things from the bench and teleported back. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After a shower and a change of clothes—the same coat and cape as always, with a shirt beneath that was a nearly indistinguishable shade darker than this afternoon’s—he wrapped the core in another layer of cloth for the insulation and headed for the President’s apartment.  It was on the top floor, many stories up from the rest of the employee housing.  He met no one at all—honestly, outside of the meetings, the place might as well have been abandoned.  Did any of the humans in the district outside ever think about how few people they ever saw actually coming and going from this building?  Likely not—the accumulation of toge-power encouraged disinterest. </p><p>The hallways on the upper levels were slightly wider, if no better lit, the metal walls looming, the ceiling lost in gloom.  The President’s rooms were at the farthest end, past a flickering purple energy wall that lowered with the entry of a passcode, which Listor had found waiting for him on his apartment’s message terminal earlier.  The barrier raised again once he passed through.</p><p>On the other side, everything seemed quieter.  The omnipresent hum of the lights dropped to almost nothing, which was part of it, but there was a hush to the place too, some quality of the air that muffled even the clack his boots normally made on the hard floors.  The Criasu emblem was etched into the metal frame above a pair of double doors, which slid halfway open as he approached. </p><p>The room inside was plainer than he expected, huge and nearly empty, the view dominated by the enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall.  A full moon hung above the buildings outside, silver and swollen like overripe fruit, so bright that the room needed no other illumination. </p><p>“Listor.  Thank you for coming.”</p><p>He turned.  A bed stood not far from the door, and the sight of it made his stomach do one single nervous flip.  But it stood empty, and through the gauzy curtains…</p><p>“Over here.”  The President waved from the other side of the bed, where he sat on a startlingly pink couch arranged in front of a coffee table.  He gestured at a selection of plates as Listor approached.  “There’s some spinach crostini, some lettuce wraps with shrimp.  And I made some tea—I know you like it better than coffee.”</p><p>That much was true—caffeine tended to give Listor heart flutters, as if some aspect of his circulatory system had just never quite adjusted to his new form.  Less clear was why the man knew or cared anything about Listor’s dietary habits.  He moved closer, hesitating at the end of the couch.  What exactly was the protocol for this sort of thing, and how much did it matter, in the end?</p><p>George shot a smile up at him—and he <em>did </em>look tired, dressed in his off-hours white shirt, the lines beneath his eyes stark in the brilliant moonlight. </p><p>“We’re off the clock,” he said, a gentle reminder.  “You can sit wherever you’d like.” </p><p>The options were comically limited, but Listor settled for lowering himself onto the other end of the couch and turning a closer eye to the array.  He hadn’t expected to find himself hungry, but he also hasn’t eaten since before the morning meeting, and that just a half-finished apple and piece of toast—he’d prioritized the time for Bishin instead, little good though it had done.  Now the sight of food made his stomach growl, drawing a chuckle out of his host.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Listor said, and leaned forward to take one of the lettuce wraps onto his plate.</p><p>“Please.”  George picked a kettle up from a tile coaster on the table.  “English breakfast or sencha?” </p><p>“The—sencha, please.”  He watched the man smoothly pour two cups of water, then expertly scoop and bag fresh leaves from a tin before delicately sliding the packets into the water, letting them steep as he resealed the tin.  Listor ate, the few bites startlingly strong, crisp in his mouth after an afternoon tasting of nothing but empty bitterness.  After a few quiet minutes, George pulled the teabags out and dropped them in an empty mug.</p><p>“It wasn’t much of a ceremony, I know, but here.”    </p><p>Listor left his plate balanced on his lap and took the dish.  The steam coiling up from the pear-colored surface warmed his face; a smattering of particulate drifted suspended in the cup.  The scent, rich and full as fresh straw, was startlingly robust compared to the ready-brewed variety the cafeteria kept on hand.  Listor took a careful sip of it. </p><p>“Passable, I hope?  I haven’t made tea for someone else in quite a while.”  George leaned against the back of the couch, observing him. </p><p>“It’s very good.”  Probably the best thing Listor had had since the start of his employment, a buttery, grassy taste, astringent on the first swallow, but with a lingering sweetness in the aftertaste.  “Where did you get it?”</p><p>“It’s a stock I had prepared for when we moved into the final stage.  I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but I know once we stopped time, we’d have to make do with what we had.”  George took a sip from his own cup, briefly closing his eyes; he swallowed a few seconds later.  “And when your time is running out, you find ways to make the moments count.” </p><p>He looked over the thin rim at Listor, who stared back at him and did not say, <em>Every one of my moments has been agony.</em></p><p>“You were beautiful in the gym today, by the way,” George said abruptly.  “How did you ever learn so quickly?” </p><p>How embarrassing was too embarrassing to say when faced with a question like that?  He might have dodged the question once, when he cared more about how he looked in the company’s eyes, but given everything that had happened…  Listor cast his eyes down again and delivered the answer in an even voice.</p><p>“When I was <em>much</em> younger, I used to sneak into martial arts movies.” </p><p>“Really?”  Porcelain clinked as George set his cup back in its saucer.  “<em>You</em> did?”</p><p>“I would find somewhere secluded afterward and try to emulate them.  Before…”  <em>Harry, the township, Criasu.  </em>“Before.  So Criasu’s training wasn’t my first encounter.  Though obviously it’s more effective than what I was doing back then.” </p><p>“I <em>never</em> would guessed that,” the other man said, the cadence of a smile in his voice.  “How marvelous.”</p><p>“It’s nothing so impressive, sir.”  Listor kept his eyes on his saucer as George moved closer on the couch. </p><p>“You’re wrong.”  The man’s hand was on his leg this time, a sudden warmth to contrast the prolonged chill from the control core.  “You’ve come such a long way in just a few years, Listor, and under such a weight.” </p><p>“Everyone at Criasu—”</p><p>“—has something they want to prolong,” George broke in.  He leaned to the side and set his tea on the table before straightening back up.  “And if they lose it in the course of working for us, they often leave, one way or another.  I can think of very few who lost that important thing and stayed anyway.” </p><p>Listor stayed quiet.  After a moment, George sighed.  He lifted his hand to splay it gently over Listor’s own, which still gripped the teacup and saucer. </p><p>“Here,” he said and pulled the tea away, setting it down next to his own.  He turned to face Listor fully, tucking one leg beneath himself.  “Now look at me.”  Listor reluctantly allowed his eyes to track up George’s arm to his face, the lowered eyebrows and the slight frown. </p><p>“Your loyalty and dedication are second to none.”  He cupped Listor’s cheek with one hand.  “Your work supervising the branch for me was unimpeachable.  Your eye for talent is superb.  Your contributions to this company are innumerable.”  He smiled, the smallest upturn of his lips.  “Honestly, keeping you beside me is a reason to stop time all by itself.”</p><p><em>It isn’t you I wanted.  </em>Listor closed his eyes, unable to bear the man’s soft smile, and turned his face into George’s palm.  The President’s other hand found his cheek and then he leaned in, closing the distance between them, and his breath stirred the air at Listor’s lips.</p><p>“Please, keep staying beside me.”</p><p>The kiss was a delicate thing, so fleeting as to seem unsure, even as one of George’s hands skimmed back along Listor’s jaw, fingertips deft behind the curve of his ear. </p><p><em>It will happen, </em>Listor thought, and sank forward into the President’s warmth. </p><p>George sighed beneath him, soft and content, one arm wrapping around Listor’s back.  The kiss came again, lingering and gentle, then George nuzzled at his neck, head resting on his shoulder. </p><p>“You’re sure?” he murmured, fingers tracing down the nape of Listor’s neck and circling around his collar, following the seam of cloth as it dropped towards the hollow of his clavicle.</p><p>Listor nodded against the indecision clambering up his throat and tentatively lifted his arms from his lap, unsure what to even do with them.  George tucked himself in closer, fingers moving to the clasp of Listor’s cape and unfastening it deftly.  He drew the cape away from Listor’s shoulder and dropped it over the arm of the couch. </p><p>“Hold me, then,” he said as his hand returned to close lightly on Listor’s elbow, encouraging it closer.</p><p>Listor let his arms close around George’s waist, leaning back as the President leaned in, his attention still on Listor's clothes.  A smile tugged itself over George's face as he found the clasps tucked behind the line of Listor's coat and folded them open, leaving the coat, its weight unbalanced, to fall loose around Listor's frame.  George shifted higher, rising up onto his knee, and set to removing the coat entirely. </p><p>Listor glanced over George's clothes, uncertain if he should be making similar moves, but held out his right arm obediently to allow the fabric to be tugged free.  It left him in only his unadorned blue and his boots, and he shivered at the sudden absence, though the room was perfectly heated. </p><p>George leaned down over him, practically in his lap now, and pushed his hands back through Listor's hair, tugging strands loose from his ponytail.  Cupping his fingers around Listor's chin, he pressed another kiss to his lips, harder and more insistent, an alien pressure that sped Listor's heartbeat, the afternoon's panic a slowly reawakening ache. </p><p>Listor closed his eyes again against the intensity of that golden stare, breath catching as George's hand dropped suddenly lower, sliding up beneath Listor’s shirt to press skin-to-skin against his abdomen.  Seizing the chance, George’s tongue slipped past his lips, fingers caressing up his chest with a gliding, sure touch.</p><p>Listor’s eyebrows knotted, feeling his breathing begin to pick up speed, quick and sharp in his nose, then in a gasp as George broke the kiss, pulling back to smile down at him.</p><p>"Let’s get your shoes off.  The couch won't be as comfortable as the bed."</p><p>Listor nodded numbly, arms still crossed around George's back, and stared up at him.</p><p>The man ran his hand over Listor's thigh.  "It's all right."  He didn’t elaborate, just pulled himself free and stood, holding one of Listor's wrists and stooping back in to press a quick kiss into his palm.</p><p>Listor leaned forward to remove the first of his boots then froze.  His eyes had caught on the shape beginning to press against the soft, dark fabric of George's pants. </p><p>“Mm?”  The President ran a hand through Listor’s hair again, tugging it fully loose, and Listor looked away, concentrating on getting his shoes off.  When he finished, George leaned down and dusted a kiss over his temple even as he teased at the bottom hem of Listor’s shirt, tugging it upwards towards his shoulders.</p><p>He ducked forward to help shrug the shirt off and one hand landed hesitantly on George’s wrist.  The man turned his hand into the touch, entwining their fingers and pulling Listor up to his feet, catching him about the waist and smiling up at him serenely.  With a hum of satisfaction, he took a step backward, tugging Listor after him.</p><p>Gaze locked, Listor followed. </p><p>George toed out of his own low house-shoes as they went, then eased himself down onto the low bed, guiding Listor's hands to his neck, to the loose collar of his shirt.  Listor thought, briefly and madly, of crossing his thumbs and crushing down, of choking the air from that white throat.  He smiled, uneven and disbelieving at the image—<em>Can I still be this foolish?</em>—before spreading his fingers down across George’s shoulders.</p><p>George clasped Listor’s elbows.  Without warning, he tugged down, sharply, and Listor stumbled, one knee hitting the mattress, his hands tightening on George's shoulders for support.  Wrapping one hand around the back of Listor's other thigh, George pulled it in to rest on the other side of his hip. </p><p>"There.”  He ran his hand up Listor's bare back.  “I promise it isn't so hard."</p><p>"What isn't?" Listor whispered, throat gone dry despite the lingering taste of the tea.</p><p>George smiled, rueful, and began to tug down the edges of Listor's pants.  "Letting yourself forget." </p><p>Listor wound his fingers in George's shirt, trembling, and curled in closer. </p><p>George eased the pants halfway down, tugging underwear along in the same motion, and gave what he saw a lean half-smile that Listor couldn’t even begin to parse; his hands moved again, one splaying over the bone of Listor's hip, the other tucking in behind his knee.  He ducked forward, dipping his head, opening his mouth, and—</p><p>Listor jerked, a full-body spasm that wrung a strangled cry from his throat, and tried instinctually to pull away.  George's grip tightened in response, unyielding, and his mouth continued to work, lips and tongue, wetness and heat that quickly left Listor gasping and twisting against him, hunched over his shoulders.  Listor's hands dragged up the length of the man’s back, clenching fistfuls of white fabric and rucking it upwards in desperation to find <em>something </em>to cling to. </p><p>He couldn’t look down, couldn’t look at the sight of himself in the President's mouth, but there was nothing in the room to fixate on, the crawling bands of light on the headboard rendered meaningless gibberish, the walls a distant blur of blue.  The lights of the city outside the window twinkled—illusion, hologram, always a full moon, always a frozen city, frozen lights, frozen ruins and nothing breathing but a great moaning wind that circled through buildings crying out like some lost, suffering beast—</p><p>His voice was foreign in his own ears, pitched too high, wavering with something far more vulnerable than pain.  It climbed higher, higher; he was trapped, trapped in relentless arms and an unending, impossible moment of crescendo.  <em>Don't stop</em>, <em>not now, I can't bear this, I can't, I can't—! </em></p><p>And then a fulcrum tipped and he was falling over the edge, the overwhelming sensation bleeding out of him in fits and bursts.  His knees gave out and he sagged into George's lap, hands loosening and sliding down to lie on the bed and twitch with residual nerves.  Gradually, he became aware of his breathing, thready and shallow, and George's hand stroking through his hair, the man's deep voice murmuring, "Good, good.  You're all right." </p><p>The President turned and lowered him onto the mattress, fingers tracing a delicate caress over his cheek.  "Let me rinse," he said, low and matter-of-fact, and Listor winced, rolling onto his side to put his back to the room and its owner.  Above him, George chuckled.  There was the sound of a panel on the bed's headboard sliding back, followed by a muffled rummaging and the spill of water in a glass. </p><p>As the flush of stimulation drained, Listor registered again the control core's presence, a discordant, too-real ache.  He clipped short a sigh of dissatisfaction and propped himself up on one elbow to try and dig the thing out of his pocket where it rested by his upper calf, frigid through multiple layers of cloth. </p><p>George's hand fell to rest over his just as he drew it out.  The cold burned down to the bone, passing through flesh like a sunrise melting away an early fog.  He looked up in confusion at the mild curve of George's smile. </p><p>"It's coming along very quickly, I can tell," the man said.  He looked over at the ball of cloth trapped in their tangled fingers, turning it to and fro as if he could see straight through to its surface. </p><p>"What is it—doing?" Listor managed, trying to roll the device to a different place on his palm. </p><p>"Acclimating," came the answer, and then George guided Listor's hand up towards the headboard.  "Here—put it in the alcove for now.  You won't want it to be too far away from you." </p><p>Listor released the core once he felt a solid surface beneath his fingers, then pulled his hand free, stretching and clenching it to work away the chill.  George shot him another quick smile before pushing himself upright, out of the bed and onto his feet. </p><p>Listor watched him move, at first uncertain, then with a threading sense of disquiet as George undid the few buttons holding his shirt closed and slipped it off, letting it drop to the floor.  The rest of his clothes followed after and George clambered back onto the bed fully nude, tugging the gossamer curtains closed after him and turning a smile edged with anticipation down onto Listor. </p><p>“It’s my turn now, yes?” </p><p>Listor's throat closed with a confusion that edged far too close to open terror.  Seeing his expression, George laughed. </p><p>"There's no need to look so panicked."  He reached out, closing his fingers in the loose drape of Listor's pants and pulling them the few inches off his legs.  With the same careless abandon, he tossed them out past the curtains.  "We'll do something different this time, something we can both enjoy." </p><p>"I'm sorry if you didn't enjoy—"  The words were inane, ludicrous—<em>Which of us is the one who even initiated that?!</em>—but they spilled out of Listor's mouth anyway, because he could not, <em>would not</em>, lose his position now, not like Papple had and Gelos was in danger of doing. </p><p>"It's fine, Listor," George cut him off, a lilt of amusement still underscoring the words.  "I know what I'm doing."  He wrapped one hand around Listor's ankle and tugged at it demonstratively. </p><p>Feeling new heat in his cheeks, Listor rolled over onto his back again, horribly aware of how exposed it left him.  In one movement, George suddenly loomed over him, knees between Listor's legs, hands planted on either side of his shoulders.  Mussed black hair fell around the man’s cheeks, shadowing his expression from the portion of pale, diffuse light that managed to seep through the curtains.  For a moment he only stared, those aquiline yellow eyes raking up and down the man beneath him, and then he swept down, falcon swift, lips skimming across Listor's cheek until they found his mouth.</p><p>Clenching one hand in the sheets beneath him, Listor let his lips part—more than invitation enough for George to deepen the kiss responsively, tongue teasing at Listor's own before pressing in deeper.  The mattress shifted, ever so slightly, as he lifted one hand to press it over Listor's cheek and down his neck, sliding over his collarbone then sweeping down his chest to settle at his waist. </p><p>George broke the kiss incrementally, pulling away then returning, deeper each time, craning Listor's head back into the mattress.  Listor breathed in quick, shallow gasps, air stolen when their mouths parted, fighting the urge to roll over and away.  Finally, George pulled up fully, only to immediately begin pressing lingering kisses down Listor's bared throat, damp little licks of tongue and puffs of warm breath against Listor's skin. </p><p>Listor managed to hold his silence until teeth closed gently around one of his nipples; the shock of it, the sudden maddening thrill of sensation, dragged a high, clipped cry out of him.  George's breath hitched in response; he teased the sensitive skin for a moment longer, leaving Listor so distracted he only registered the movement of George's hand when it was gone. </p><p>He gasped again, louder, when he felt the fingers sliding down his length.  One of his knees pulled up in reflexive defense, but George just leaned his hip into it comfortably, unhurriedly stroking at Listor's member.  Listor hissed in response, turning his cheek down against the sheets.  One hand raised, groping, and found the solid line of George's other arm, the one he was leaning on to support his weight.  Listor let his grip close around the other man’s shoulder. </p><p>Long hair tickled at Listor's skin as George pulled back, his touch easing away.  The reprieve lasted for only a moment; before Listor could catch his breath, the back of George's hand brushed against him again, this time—</p><p><em>Ahh…  His…  </em>Listor's thoughts shied away from the physicality of it, the <em>undeniability </em>of George Kurai's member being eased into place alongside Listor's own, the two organs held loosely together by the President's broad hand.  He stared unseeing at the bedframe, picking out individual sensations in the swimming mire—his heartbeat thundering in his ears.  The same insistent pulse between his legs.  The smoothness of the sheets beneath his bare back.  The low, crooning little noises coming from the back of George’s throat as he set to working the two of them.  His own harsh, rasping breaths, heaving to the point of pain in his lungs. </p><p>Solid heat.  Rubbing.  Slickness. A stitch of tension, hot and heavy in his gut.  A muscle jumping along the inside of his thigh each time George’s hand brushed against it.</p><p>A shadow crossed over his face.  For just a moment, battered by the turbulence of need and loathing, memory snapped him up in merciless jaws.  A cold, hard surface beneath his shoulders, his limbs pinned and immobile—hands descending from out of a searing white light, larger than the whole of his body, his form so much smaller and frailer back then.  Listor instinctively flinched aside, his eyes screwing shut. </p><p>George pulled something out of the compartment in the headboard, the presence of him stark and potent above, then his weight settled back.  One hand stroked down Listor's waist, trailing over his hip.</p><p>"We'll need to change positions a bit," George murmured, scooping Listor's knee up and hooking it over his shoulder.  His lips skimmed, feather-light, over the inside of Listor's calf.  "Don't worry.  I'll take it slow."</p><p><em>Stop, stop taking it slow; why can't you just get it over with?!  </em>Listor bit the words back, swallowed even the thought down, smothering it beneath the manta of, <em>It will happen.  It will happen.  </em>He forced his eyes open again and looked down the bed at the other man, who was now opening a slim glass bottle filled with a clear fluid—<em>not </em>water, Listor knew when the scent hit him, a sandalwood glow undercut with a chemical tang.  The cool surface brushed against his skin as George switched the bottle to his left hand, spilling a measure of it across the open fingers of his right.  He recapped the bottle loosely and set it at the back corner of the bed, rubbing at his dampened fingers, now glistening wetly in the dim light. </p><p><em>Aren't we wet enough as it is? </em>Listor had time to think, watching the President's languid movements, then his breath seized in his throat as George's fingers reached—not back to his length but further down, pressing against his entrance. </p><p>"Relax," the man said, and the protesting cry died on Listor's tongue.  He twisted his head away again, crossing his arms over his face as the other continued his ministrations, gentle but undeterrable. </p><p>One finger, working its way in, a compact, intrusive pressure.  A second, opening him up, leaving him panting with exertion, sweat trickling down his belly and thighs.  With the third, George hit—<em>something</em>, some patch of flesh or nerve within that fired naked, unthinking pleasure up Listor’s spine and made his voice break sharply upwards, his hips jerking in stuttering instinct. </p><p>“There we are,” George murmured, voice husky, and brushed against the spot again, releasing a hum of satisfaction Listor barely heard over his own choked cry of want.  He pulled his fingers out with an agonizing deliberation, the weight of him shifting on the bed, and Listor groped for him with a pang of sudden desperation. </p><p>“P-Please…!”  <em>Don’t leave me like this!</em></p><p>George’s hand caught Listor’s and pushed it back onto the bed, palm-to-palm, fingers entwining, and then <em>he</em> was pushing in, filling Listor up with a low groan of his own.  Grip braced taut on Listor’s hip, he strained, pulling them tighter with a soft hiss and a tremor of effort that wracked Listor with shivering in response. </p><p>Then out, and in again, easier this time, more smooth, and he leaned down over Listor to plunge them into another deep kiss, all tongue and teeth, a frenzy of hunger that Listor could only lay himself bare before, feeble, half-formed responses that the President devoured without hesitation. </p><p>The world rolled and jolted in time with their rocking movements, brief twinges of discomfort mixing with bursts of pleasure that tore through him like gale winds.  He moaned and panted, throat long gone dry, George’s skin hot and sweat-slick against his own, their hands tangled together for what little desperate purchase there was to be found, and somewhere in all of it he came again, a hot spatter on his chest, the room’s blue lights flashing white behind his eyes, the sound of own voice that of a stranger.</p><p>Spent twice over, he lost the sense of himself for a time, the sensation of George still moving inside of him gone hazy and distant in the comedown.  When the other man climaxed with a soft, cut-off cry, Listor was still weak-limbed, only barely strong enough to clutch him closer, gasping faintly at the alien warmth spilling inside him. </p><p>The gloom around them seemed to deepen, shadows crawling out of the corners.  The little alcove where the control core rested stood as a square of black ink stamped into the headboard.  The <em>cold</em> of it…</p><p>George pulled away, pulled out, and Listor’s voice climbed, a desolate mewling.</p><p>“Shh…”  George lay down beside him, pulling Listor into his embrace and stroking his hair.  “Tomorrow will still come,” he whispered unevenly against Listor’s throat, and all the weight of reality crashed back onto him at once, hurling him into a trembling, sore body lying tangled with that of a man he had never stopped despising. </p><p>George pressed a kiss to his skin in answer to his choked sob.  “But not for much longer, Listor.”</p><p>The tears spilled over and Listor wept, clinging and bereft, cradled in the darkness and George’s arms.</p>
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